


lay by me (i still care, when you need)

by komkommertijd



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Australian Open 2021, Cuddling & Snuggling, Feels, Hair Playing, Hugs, Introspection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, it's really just Dominic thinking Thoughts™ idk what to tell you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29475711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/komkommertijd/pseuds/komkommertijd
Summary: It's easier to eat it all up and keep it inside, to be pragmatic as long as the spot light's on him, to pour it into the hotel pillows and training later, to be the reasonable one.OrSome much needed comfort after the disaster on Sunday.
Relationships: Dominic Thiem/Alexander Zverev
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	lay by me (i still care, when you need)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi kids! 
> 
> I've been meaning to write fic in this fandom for quite some time already but the anxiety of that challenge has kept me away so far. However, after getting up at 5am on Sunday just to get my heart broken, I thought it's finally time.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy this one - I haven't been very omnipresent since Sunday so it might lack logic here and there. Furthermore, English is not my first language, so please generously ignore any grammar and spelling errors.
> 
> Thank you to my dear friend Eli, whom I've accidentally dragged into the fandom last week, for providing me with so many inspiring ideas, I couldn't have done it without her <3
> 
> Have fun :)
> 
> (Title from Lay By Me by Ruben)

He's unbelievably tired, that's the first thing he feels when he lets his body drop onto the mattress of his hotel bed, face-first into the pillow, where the smell of his conditioner is mixing with laundry detergent. The fabric is cool against his face, feels a bit too rough just like it did when he first got up that morning, and his limbs feel so heavy that he wonders how he even made it back to his room.

Exhaustion mingles with the humid weather, the sun, the wind, his somber mood after the match. It feels unreal, though the ache in his chest and the burn that doesn't yet fade from his calves are an indicator that this nightmare did indeed happen. It feels unreal, to drop that low after a first whiff of the fresh air on top barely a few months ago.

Despite the shower he's taken, he feels sweaty and gross, uncomfortable in his clothing, ill-fitting in a way that's suddenly not appealing to him anymore. What should be thin, breathable fabric is cutting off his air, makes him drown in his own misery and the disappointment that comes in waves, clinging to his skin, trapping him, holding him down and back.

It shouldn't have ended that way, not now, not against Grigor, hours of thinking, working, improving, wasted in the span of two hours. The guilt tastes sour on his tongue and hurts the back of his throat, like acid burning his insides. He feels nauseous, shivers when another blast of cold from the aircon pats his back. It's encouragement, yet it doesn't cheer him up. The fabric of the pillow crumbles between his fingers, he hears the shift, ringing in his head. It's too much and not enough, tears pooling in his eyes, hot on his cheeks, wet on the pillow.

There's a knock on the door, knuckles rapping against the wood in a familiar pattern, so well-known that he fears his heartbeat might synchronize with it if he's not careful. He sighs quietly into the confidence of his pillow and involuntarily holds his breath after, not wanting to arouse suspicion. He knows his chances to be left alone are good if he just holds on to this game of his for as long as possible.

“Dominic, I know you're in there,” Sascha says nevertheless, his voice muffled by the wooden barrier between them but clear enough for it to replace the ringing in his own ears.

It's just another game he's losing that day he thinks, with bitter irony in the aftertaste, and Sascha is still waiting for him to react, he senses it, and it weighs heavier on his back than his shirt. His limbs still feel like lead, and his mind is tired, and the door softly thuds when Sascha leans against it, or that's what Dominic supposes he's doing.

“Komm schon, Domi,” he tries again, with a whine underlining the urgency of his demand. He shouldn't grant him that satisfaction, he doesn't even want to, but there's something in his stomach that Sascha has control over, that grabs him at his very core and tugs, just slightly, to pull him off balance and make him give in. He's weak, and he hates being weak in moments where he doesn't even have to be. It's scary to think that someone like Sascha has that kind of control over him, without even trying, without being aware of it.

“One minute,” he finally says, raising his head from the pillow just enough to make it audible to the unwelcomed guest outside his room. It drops right back down, the impact pressing the pent up air out of his lungs, and it takes a lot of willpower to even turn onto his back to sit up on the bed. He turns off the aircon on his way to the door, which finally makes silence settle in the room, the mechanical purr disappearing to make way to nothingness.

It doesn't last, peace of any kind never really lasts with Sascha around. He pulls the door open abruptly, with more force than intended and even more than he expected to still have inside of him. It's only then that he realizes that he probably looks like a mess, just having cried with his head buried in the pillow, face cooling at the sudden lack of warm dampness. Maybe he has lines from the pillow pressed into his skin, blending into the flaky red around his eyes, maybe, most likely, his hair is messed up, making him look even more pathetic than he feels, so small under Sascha's gaze.

“You look horrible.” He sounds amused, there's a glint in his expression Dominic can't place, and his smile is warm, or so he guesses from the way his eyes crinkle behind the mask he's wearing, and yet it still feels like he's mocking the Austrian. He bites his lip, nods reluctantly, it's not like he disagrees. He feels miserable, there's no point in denying it. Sascha frowns.

“I've seen worse though,” he tries to save their conversation, his monologue, really. Dominic doesn't have the power to fight his stupid antics at the moment, it makes his head hurt more than the ever-looming danger of dehydration, so he simply moves away from the door to let him enter, and closes it as soon as Sascha has stepped over the threshold.

He stays close to the door, wary of the German in his hotel room, and watches him kick off his shoes before he takes a seat on the bed as if it's completely normal for him to do that, the mattress dipping visibly under his weight. He leans back on his hands and seems to hesitate for the first time since his arrival in front of Dominic's door. It's hard to judge with the mask still covering his face, eyes unreadable from the distance. It's barely seven or eight steps between them, less if he walks faster and takes bigger steps, but it feels like a whole world between them, oceans of tasteless carpet, islands of bags, clothes, and shoes tossed onto the surface with little care.

“You shouldn't be here,” he points out after another while of silence that feels heavy on his shoulders. Sascha finally takes his mask off and tosses it onto the nightstand closest to him, and shrugs easily, seemingly unbothered by that fact. It's always easy for Sascha, doing this. Letting emotions show and giving way for that part of himself, the part that doesn't care and doesn't think, and just feels.

Dominic can't do that, it's not how he handles things. It's easier to eat it all up and keep it inside, to be pragmatic as long as the spot light's on him, to pour it into the hotel pillows and training later, to be the reasonable one. It doesn't enrage him anymore, though he sometimes wishes he could do the same and not care for a moment.

“Rules are there to be broken, and who would I be if I didn't test the limits?”

“That's not what I mean,” he replies truthfully and tries to ease himself into the conversation by fiddling with his bracelet. Sascha raises an eyebrow and conjures another smile, Dominic is too exhausted and disappointed in himself to deal with this on top of his mental chaos.

“You should be celebrating your own win, instead of coming here to pity me.”

Something in Sascha's easy facade softens. He moves on the bed, wiggling his ridiculously long limbs around until he's close enough to the headboard to lean against it. Dominic watches him pick up the pillow, the one with the tear stains on it, and switch it for the one he's spared earlier without a comment.

“Come here,” he says instead of elaborating on Dominic's statement, patting the mattress next to him. The same tugging feeling, his shoulders slump, and when Sascha tilts his head to the side and blinks at him with intent, he gives in with a sigh.

Dominic sits down on the free half of the mattress, far enough for their shoulders not to touch, the heat Sascha radiates is strong enough for him to feel either way. He avoids looking at the German, staring at his own feet on top of the bedsheets instead, fingers finding their way back to his bracelet. He doesn't know how to breathe, not around Sascha, not when they are alone in his room, isolated from the world like there's only the two of them.

“I'm fine if that's what you want to ask. Just disappointed, is all.”

Sascha doesn't reply this time, maybe because he doesn't know what to say without making it sound like a joke. Dominic knows, deep down, that Sascha isn't there to make fun of him, and exhales shakily, removing his nervous fingers from the bracelet and gesturing without being entirely sure what he's trying to signalize. The mattress makes a weird noise when he drops his arms.

“Shit happens, right? Sometimes it's just not enough.” He's not entirely sure if he says it to reassure Sascha or himself.

“Was your-”

“No,” he interrupts before Sascha gets any further with the detour he's trying to take. “I'm not blaming this on my health. It's just a shit day.”

Sascha hums, and he shifts closer. The vibration runs through Dominic as well when their shoulders touch, dangerously familiar. His cologne is the same as always, another detail Dominic shouldn't be aware of, another key point on the ever-growing list of reasons to stay away if possible.

“I already said I don't want to find excuses earlier and I won't start now, not even if it's just in front of you.”

“You shouldn't blame yourself.”

“I'm not.”

“We both know that's a lie. You'd want for it to be that way but let's be real, it hurts,” Sascha tries again, coaxing him ever so gently, just the way he knows he'll get Dominic to spill. One straw at a time until the back of the camel of carefully crafted oblivion and indifference he's sitting on finally breaks. It's always way too easy for Sascha.

His arm feels comfortably heavy around Dominic's shoulder, a weight he could get rid of if he tried as opposed to everything else that drags him down, a weight he has control over. He doubts Sascha would immediately remove his arm if he asked him to, he enjoys being obnoxious like that, but he'd ultimately back off if Dominic showed him it was serious, or if he brought up enough energy to wrestle the German off. He doesn't want to though, which is a detail that should probably make him worried.

They've already come this far, they're literally sitting on his bed with their legs pressed against each other, sweat melting their skin together where their shorts fail to cover it, Sascha's fingers dangling far enough down that they would brush against Dominic's arm right where the sleeve of his t-shirt ends if he turned his hand just slightly. It's one of those chances to just do something without thinking, to act now and cry later when Sascha has left him alone to overthink his impulsive, need-based moves.

He puts his head on Sascha's shoulder. It just drops there, with a heavy sigh breaking free from his chest, the way there isn't too long anyway, and his shoulder feels less bony than expected. He's even warmer now that he's moved a tad bit closer, and Dominic knows it will probably begin to feel gross in a few minutes, maybe he shouldn't have turned off the aircon, but he doesn't care, not yet, anyway. Sascha doesn't move next to him, he simply keeps breathing steadily, which makes his shoulder rise every so slightly, almost unnoticeably. It's not exactly comfortable but neither does he feel like moving again, Sascha's height certainly helps with keeping his neck from cramping.

“It just sucks,” he finally brings himself to admit, “knowing that I could've done better. Looking back at it and seeing mistakes I could have avoided.”

“There's a huge difference between watching it from a distance and being down there, you know that.”

Of course he knows that, they all know that, it's almost stupid of Sascha to mention it, like he says it just to say something, to keep the quiet from consuming them whole. He might be trying to make his own head shut up, or maybe that's just a problem Dominic struggles with.

“Yeah, nah, it's too late anyway. There's nothing I can do now to fix it.”

“On to the next one,” Sascha adds and receives a slight nod in return that's mostly just a rubbing motion against his shoulder. It doesn't convince either of them but Dominic's mind is slowly clouding with his earlier exhaustion catching up to him again for the first time since Sascha's arrival. It could be the aftermath of his five-minute crying session but Sascha's shoulder is more comfortable than expected and he's warm in a way that doesn't make Dominic want to dissolve the way the sun has been doing for the past days.

“You shouldn't- isn't anyone waiting for you?” he murmurs, trying to keep his heavy eyelids open.

“It doesn't matter. I'm here now.”

For the first time since he's dared to move that close, Dominic lifts his head. Sascha frowns at his sudden movement, and he feels his arm slipping down from his shoulder, leaving a cold spot. Something about this still doesn't sit right with him, it didn't when Sascha has first arrived, and it still doesn't know.

“You can leave if you want to. You should be celebrating instead of listening to me complain.”

“You're not exactly complaining on your own accord,” Sascha retorts, and the lines on his forehead smooth out and soften when a smile works its way back onto his face, brief but it's there. “The thing is, you're sad right now. Disappointed, whatever. And I know that you don't want pity, I promise I'm not pitying you. I just wanted to look out for you because not everyone knows you well enough to keep caring despite your fair speaking.”

“So come back here and allow yourself to be miserable for a bit longer,” he adds after a rather dramatic break in which he took a deep breath and bit his lips, presumably to keep his own emotions at bay. Dominic hesitates, unsure whether accepting the invitation will come back around to bite him in the ass later. Why should it? It's never been an issue to get physical in the most platonic ways, he knows the limbo of fitting his face into the crook of Sascha's neck, the brief signs of mutual respect and appreciation.

It's weird how humans are almost designed to fit together, he thinks when he scoots back into his previous spot, with Sascha's arm coming back up around him. It fits like pieces of a puzzle, fingers entwining for the shortest of seconds for an encouraging squeeze, like they're meant to hold each other, like Sascha is meant to hold him.

The doubt is still there in the pit of his stomach, though it has lost its sour taste, calm waves where a storm raged before. Sascha carefully runs his fingers through Dominic's hair, nails gently scraping his scalp in an even pattern that coaxes his eyes to shut, too relaxing to fight it, too right to escape it now. He feels the tension leave his body, evaporating in the air, like Sascha's movements suck all the negativity out of him, at least for a little while, allowing his mind to calm down and his body to rest.

Like he's meant to be held, meant to be loved even, when Sascha's hand cups his cheek, the pads of his fingers imprinting themselves into the soft skin, the kind of rough that makes something in his spine tingle. Comfort, almost domestic. Sascha's thumb swipes over his cheekbone one last time, like taking a last look at something he doesn't want to let go of yet, a moment he will never get back but cherish for long, and then they find his hair again, releasing knots and resolving the pain.

The world keeps spinning and moving around them, and Sascha keeps breathing where he's squished between Dominic and the headboard, and maybe it's okay, maybe it's always been easy like that and he's simply never noticed it. Maybe he can have this, a moment of vulnerability, a moment of not bottling everything up, Sascha's fingers in his hair. Maybe it really is that easy.

He smiles, indulges in the feeling, and knows that brighter days are coming.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this until the end, that means a lot to me. Comments, kudos, and any other kind of support is always greatly appreciated and makes me super happy!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it and who knows, maybe I'll see you again soon with more content :)
> 
> (Alternatively, I can be found on [Tumblr](https://komkommertijd.tumblr.com/) (@komkommertijd) if you want to stay updated)


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